Best 1798 quotes in «words quotes» category

I’ve been writing like a madman for the past hour. I must say it was not easy to write the words, let alone think them.

I've got words residing inside me freely meandering reshaping a wasteland into the prospect of treasured home again

I've written you sixty-seven love poems. Here’s another one for you. But really, for me. These poems are the candles that I light with the fire you have ignited in me. I place this candle here and another there so even if the stars have argued with the moon and are sulking away in a corner, you can still find your way to me. Sixty-eight poems now. What does the future hold for us? Joy? Disappointment? Gentle caresses? And subtle neglect? I hope the good is more than the bad. Much more. For what is the point of love if by lighting these candles our own flame loses its brightness? I know the good is more than the bad. Much more. I cannot wait to write you sixty-nine.

I've heard you say so many a time That I know just the right words to say, just the right lines to rhyme... Today it's been 7 years since we last met I have learnt to say just the wrong words, just the lines you hate....

I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what couldI tell her about those things that she didn't already know? I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race - that rarely do I ever simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant. None of those things, however, came out of my mouth. All I was able to do was turn to Liesel Meminger and tell her the only truth I truly know. I said it to the book thief and I say it now to you. I am haunted by humans.

I want to be able to do anything with words: handle slashing, flaming descriptions like Wells, and use the paradox with the clarity of Samuel Butler, the breadth of Bernard Shaw and the wit of Oscar Wilde, I want to do the wide sultry heavens of Conrad, the rolled-gold sundowns and crazy-quilt skies of Hitchens and Kipling as well as the pastel dawns and twilights of Chesterton. All that is by way of example. As a matter of fact I am a professed literary thief, hot after the best methods of every writer in my generation.

I want to say something comforting, but I know that this is one of the moments when words would be like an appendix—superfluous or harmful.

I've never subscribed to the "words can never hurt me" point of view. Because if words can't hurt, then neither can they help or heal or inspire. Yes, words can brutalize. They can shame and scar. But people must be free to say them anyway. We protect free speech not because words are harmless, but because they are powerful.

I want to say more, but don't know what the words are supposed to be. I feel such a tenderness for these vulnerable night time conversations, the way words take a different shape in the air when there's no room in the air.

I've just come to my room, Livy darling, I guess this was the memorable night of my life. By George, I never was so stirred since I was born. I heard four speeches which I can never forget... one by that splendid old soul, Col. Bob Ingersoll, — oh, it was just the supremest combination of English words that was ever put together since the world began... How handsome he looked, as he stood on that table, in the midst of those 500 shouting men, and poured the molten silver from his lips! What an organ is human speech when it is played by a master! How pale those speeches are in print, but how radiant, how full of color, how blinding they were in the delivery! It was a great night, a memorable night. I doubt if America has seen anything quite equal to it. I am well satisfied I shall not live to see its equal again... Bob Ingersoll’s music will sing through my memory always as the divinest that ever enchanted my ears. And I shall always see him, as he stood that night on a dinner-table, under the flash of lights and banners, in the midst of seven hundred frantic shouters, the most beautiful human creature that ever lived... You should have seen that vast house rise to its feet; you should have heard the hurricane that followed. That's the only test! People might shout, clap their hands, stamp, wave their napkins, but none but the master can make them get up on their feet. {Twain's letter to his wife, Livy, about friend Robert Ingersoll's incredible speech at 'The Grand Banquet', considered to be one of the greatest oratory performances of all time}

I want to say more, but don't know what the words are supposed to be. I feel such a tenderness for these vulnerable night-time conversations, the way words take a different shape in the air when there's no light in the room.

I was pretty good at picking up new languages when I was little, but it's not like I had superpowers or anything. Kids just have an easier time with words.

I was wondering if I could talk to you?” I fiddled with one of the drawstrings of my hoodie [...] “Talk?” He stared up at me with a blank expression. I hated blank expressions, because people only used them when they didn’t want to show what they were really feeling. And I really sucked at trying to figure out what people were feeling. “Yeah,” I said, rather condescendingly. “You know, that thing you do where you open your mouth and words come out?

I wear the universe backwards. I imagine putting stars in my coffee, and sugar in the sky. I imagine going fishing in clouds, and watching the sun hide behind lakes. I'm too busy dancing with my imagination to even tip toe with reality for a second. They say I'm going mad. They're right.

What are you reading? isn’t a simple question when asked with genuine curiosity; it’s really a way of asking, Who are you now and who are you becoming?

I wear the words we didn't say. My heart is clothed in them every day.

I will read long books and the journals of dead writers. I will feel closer to them than I ever felt to people I used to know before I withdrew from the world. It will be sweet and cool this friendship of mine with dead poets, for I won’t have to touch them or answer their questions. They will talk to me and not expect me to answer. And I’ll get sleepy listening to their voices explaining the mysteries to me. I’ll fall asleep with the book still in my fingers, and it will rain.

I wish I didn’t need words to speak to her. They sometimes hold very different meanings for us both.

I wish I could read what she's written there. Instead, I pretend the letters are stars. The words, constellations.

I wish many things, but I wish I had been able to tell you that I love you, in so many more ways than that word can convey in Alben.

I wonder now, is there is a word for strength leaving your body? Or love? What of its arrival? Or is it only pain that the body names, and then only in it’s leaving? It is true, I know, that there are some things for which there are no words. Only the spaces between the words we know to say all that must be said And I think about how some calls come deep, for years and years before I finally answer. I wonder why this is so. And I wonder what this tells you about me.

I want to write something that means something to someone...the reminds them of what a second, a moment, really is...or that assures them that we are just as lost as they are. I want to write an emotion they are too fragile to let loose, so that my words can do the expression for them, the feeling for them. I want to write beyond the basics and the cliches...I want to write you, I want to write a long walk on a starry night, I want to write an exhale or an inhale...or suffocation. I want to write as clear as my voice could be heard...that is, if I had anything to say.

I wonder if Linda would still come see me if she wasn't called sister. I wonder if light would still fade if weren't a word night.

Many things are spoken out loud, but be careful of those words that you whisper to yourself. You have the ability to uplift yourself or condemn yourself. If your thoughts are depressingly running across your mind. You need to make adjustments and change your way of thinking.

I want you to remember that—it’s our choices that matter in the end. Not wishes, not words, not promises.

Iwapo watu watakwenda nje ya kusudi la Mungu, hata wawe makini kiasi gani na injili, maneno yao hata yawe ya hekima kiasi gani hayatawasaidia chochote.

Literary translation is not merely an act of picking words from one language and keeping it by dipping in the vessel of another language. Those words need to be rinsed, washed, carved and decorated as much as possible.

Literature will save me it's the only certainty i am sure of.

Long hours spent in the study of any text will reveal inner, unseen contours, an abstract architecture. This is as true of sacred books as of those poems written in pursuit of courtly or earthly love, or even of language itself. The ancient Mosaic law had accommodated this insight to the disadvantage of the surface layer, of images, while the Roman Catholic Church, akin to the preliterate cultural forms from which it in part arose, allows for the existence of a mystical understanding and experience of these abstractions. The careful scholar cannot but help but become aware of the conflict: when one speaks of the word, or Word, what is one truly speaking of? Who is the architect, man, and---or---a---God? Attempts to apprehend this new reality, these tensions, went initially by the names of philosophy, theology, science. What is it to know deeply? Is knowledge not always a form of power that, taken too far, cannot be turned against itself?

Loneliness of heart In the still of the night my heart doth cry out, who can hear it for time is far spent. In the darkness in the shadow of the depth I find isolation and fear...

Long live the dreamer inside of me.

Lonnie's monotonous speech gives him an advantage, the same advantage foreigners have: his words are not worn out. It is like a code tapped through a wall. Sometimes he asks me straight out: do you love me? and it is possible to tap back: yes, I love you.

Look into words for the tomb of space where beauties & stones & eternities untangle. (...) In them is the flood which bothers the sea and the songs which need no music. Say these words that evolve into silence, whose language survives not being understood. Pronounce those which are unpalatable & untangle from all the world wants to hear.

Looking at the root of a word is much like looking at the roots of a tree. The foundation is important, but even a tree with a strong root can still bear sickly fruit if it is subject to mismanagement.

Lord Vetinari in a meeting: “what people said was what they wanted him to hear. He paid a lot of attention to the spaces outside the words, though. That’s where the things were that they hoped he didn’t know and didn’t want him to find out.

Lots of words are there, vocabulary, in tonns of languages......still none to manifest my feelings.!! bahut saare shabd hain, phir bhi mujhe shabdo ki kami pad rahi hai.

Love can only be expressed through actions. Words fail to encompass its enormity

Love is a silence that needs lips to be said.

love is not the expression of words and really you no need to show that when you act for them your sudden unconditional decision, work, non-sense, care shows everything.... that make them special one of your world......... Bharat Bhushan

Love isn't about words you want to hear. It's about actions you need to feel.

Love is wind for the soul

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover and the poet Are of imagination all compact: One sees more devils than vast hell can hold, That is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic, Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt: The poet's eye, in fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name.

Love writes without words.

Loving my son, building my son, touching my son, playing with my son, being with my son… these aren’t tasks that only super dads can perform. These are tasks that every dad should perform. Always. Without fail.

Maa" The only word that holds power to give you strength when you are in pain.

Maisie bit her lip. She had learned that sometimes it was best to let words die of their own accord, rather than fight them.

Make your footsteps count; let your footprints be counted

Man created words to free himself

Man's brain, enlarged fortuitously, invented words in an ambitious effort to learn how to think, only to have them usurped by his emotions. But we still try." -- Nero Wolf in Death of a Dude.

Man rejection of the Truth is the root of his rebellion.